La Mancha Maid Café

The table assigned to you lay in one of the quieter sections of the La Mancha Maid Café, away from the noisier event tables and closer to a tall window overlooking the courtyard. The atmosphere there felt deliberately restrained. A small vase sat at the center of the table, the silverware had been arranged with almost excessive precision, and even the menu lacked most of the handwritten decorations found elsewhere in the café.

After a short while, Dulcinea approached.

There was no exaggerated greeting, no enthusiastic announcement that a new guest had arrived. She simply stopped beside the table, glanced over the place setting to make certain everything was in order, then laid a menu down with practiced care.

Dulcinea: "Welcome. I'll be serving you."

Her tone was calm and almost indifferent, as though the statement were merely another item on a list of responsibilities. Still, she quietly adjusted the position of the waterless flower vase by a fraction when she noticed it was slightly off-center.

The menu contained the café's usual selection of teas, coffee, light meals, omelet rice, cakes, and parfaits. Several of the more elaborate items had short descriptions beneath them, while a separate section listed drinks and meals intended specifically for Bloodfiends.

Dulcinea remained nearby while you looked through it, keeping enough distance that her presence did not feel intrusive.

Dulcinea: "If you prefer something sweet, the berry tart is acceptable. The tea set is better if you don't want anything heavy."

She paused, then added with a faintly dismissive air.

Dulcinea: "And no, that's not a sales pitch. I simply don't see the point in recommending something mediocre."

Her gaze briefly passed over the neighboring tables before returning to yours. Despite her cool manner, she seemed to notice small details quickly—a missing utensil at another table, a cup left too close to an edge, the moment a guest looked uncertain about a menu.

The café expected its maids to be cheerful and affectionate, but Dulcinea clearly had no intention of forcing herself into exaggerated sweetness. Her service was instead quiet, efficient, and strangely attentive. She did not hover, yet somehow nothing at the table remained neglected for long.

After another moment, she rested one hand lightly against the back of the empty chair opposite you.

Dulcinea: "Don't choose quickly just because I'm standing here. There's no need to rush."

Her expression remained composed, but her voice softened almost imperceptibly before she looked away again.

Dulcinea: "...When you've decided, tell me your order."

The table reserved for you sat along one of the calmer aisles of the La Mancha Maid Café, far enough from the event area that the noise faded into a gentle mixture of conversation, soft music, and porcelain touching saucers. Everything had already been arranged with almost excessive neatness: silverware aligned perfectly, napkin folded squarely, menu placed at the exact center of the table.

It did not take long for the Head Maid herself to arrive.

Sancho approached carrying a small tray beneath one arm and stopped beside the table with the rigid posture of someone performing an official duty rather than working in a maid café. For several seconds, she simply looked at the place setting, apparently making certain there was absolutely nothing she could fix before she was forced to address you.

Then came the part she clearly disliked.

A faint red color crept across her cheeks.

Sancho: "...Welcome to the La Mancha Maid Café. I will be serving you today."

The words were delivered carefully and professionally, but the embarrassment behind them was impossible to completely hide. Sancho immediately looked away after finishing the greeting, as though maintaining eye contact would somehow make the maid uniform, the ribbons, and the entire situation more humiliating.

She placed the menu in front of you and quietly adjusted its angle.

The selection was broad: tea, coffee, sandwiches, cakes, parfaits, omelet rice, and several seasonal desserts. Unlike some of the more decorative menus around the café, this one had been kept remarkably clean. A few items had small notes marking them as popular choices, but there were no excessive hearts or enthusiastic handwritten recommendations.

Sancho remained beside the table.

There was an awkward pause.

Apparently, she remembered something.

Her expression tightened slightly.

Sancho: "...I'm also supposed to recommend today's special."

Another trace of red reached her ears. She exhaled quietly through her nose, visibly gathering enough resolve to continue.

Sancho: "The omelet rice is popular. If you order it, I am... expected to decorate it before serving."

She paused again.

Sancho: "...There may be a heart involved."

The admission sounded almost painful.

Sancho turned her face aside for a moment, clearly regretting whichever decision—or whichever person—had placed the Head Maid in charge of this particular café tradition. Still, she did not try to escape the responsibility. Embarrassed or not, she took her work seriously, and once the initial awkwardness had passed, her attention returned fully to the table.

She checked that everything you might need was within reach, then held the tray against herself with both hands.

Sancho: "Take as long as you need. I won't rush you."

Her cheeks were still faintly pink when she finally looked back toward you.

Sancho: "...When you've decided, tell me your order."

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